Compendious
by AkoyaMizuno
Summary: Sherlock and John being... Well, Sherlock and John. A series of small moments.
1. Periodic Questioning

_Author's Notes: Just a spot to dump some little ideas. Drabbles, tiny vignettes, 221Bs, that sort of thing. Beware of the potential for Johnlock._

_*EDIT* one of my reviewers noted that Sherlock, does, in fact have a poster of the periodic table in his room. Can't say I noticed. XD_

**Periodic Questioning**

"This is your room?" John said, looking around.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously. Problem?

"Just thought... dunno, that it'd be a bit less... normal? Experiments lying around, a copy of the periodic table on the wall. Something like that."

Sherlock snorted. "This is a _bedroom_, John. Even I can't do experiments in my sleep." Sherlock paused thoughtfully. "At least not without certain equipment."

John chuckled. "Got me there. Still... the poster?"

Sherlock stared at him with his 'can you possibly be this idiotic look.' "Really, John? Why would I have a poster of something I memorized when I was eight?"

"Point."


	2. Fiddling: A Sherlockian Perspective

_Author's Notes: __I disagree with Sherlock's opinion here, but Sherlock strikes me as the type to be snotty about his music._

**Fiddling: A Sherlockian Perspective**

"Alright there, John?" Lestrade greeted the doctor come blogger cheerfully. "You're looking knackered. Sherlock not keeping you up at all hours, is he?"

"Ugh," was John's intelligent response to that.

Lestrade laughed, handing John a cup of tar-black coffee.

"What's got _you_ in such a good mood?" John asked, taking the coffee almost gleefully.

Lestrade pointed to Sherlock. The detective was not three feet away, currently engaged in taking DI Dimmock through the particulars of their latest case. "Not my case. Don't have to deal with him for once."

Sherlock looked over and rolled his eyes.

"Think he heard you," John murmured, exhaustion giving way to fond amusement.

"Don't much care," Lestrade responded. "So what's up with you? Figured that with a case just finished Sherlock might let you sleep for once."

"That one," John cocked his head towards Sherlock, "decided to spend all night fiddling away."

"Playing," Sherlock interrupted, abruptly turning towards them. "I was playing my violin, John."

John scrunched up his forehead. "That's what I said, wasn't it?"

"No, you said I was 'fiddling.'"

"Right," John muttered. "Which you were, on your fiddle."

Sherlock stiffened. "My instrument is a _violin_, John."

"What's the bloody difference?" John asked in exasperation.

"Nothing," Sherlock said contemptuously, "if the only thing you are interested in is denotations. However, when taking _connotations_ into consideration you may as well have accused me of spending the night playing a _jig_. Furthermore, a 'fiddle' may refer to _any_ member of the family of bowed stringed instruments, even if it is most colloquially thought of as a violin. Therefore, in the interest of accuracy, my instrument would be best referred to as a violin. Thus, I was playing my violin."

"Sherlock, with that infernal noise you were making you're lucky I don't call it _kindling_," John griped, the stiffness in his shoulders making Lestrade wonder if he was going to punch Sherlock.

"I _did_ warn you, John."

Lestrade watched in fascination as the mounting tension abruptly disappeared completely.

John grinned. "So you did."

Sherlock returned John's grin and turned back to Dimmock.

John refocused his attention on Lestrade. "Like I was saying, Sherlock spent the whole night playing away on his fiddle –"

"_John!"_


	3. Sting Like a Bee

_Author's Notes: One of the things that I try to avoid in my regular writing is giving too much into the stereotypes. Especially the ones that are more fanon than canon. The great joy of __**these**__ pieces is that I feel free to indulge myself as much as I like and do the things that I would normally shy away from._

**Sting Like a Bee**

"Alright," John said, putting down his book, "you've been staring at me all morning. What is it?"

Sherlock released a small, thoughtful sound. "I've been debating. But I've finally decided. _You_, John, are a bee."

With that the detective gave a self-satisfied nod and relaxed back into his chair, casually folding one leg over the other and letting his head fall back on the cushions.

"I... what?" John said.

"Your hearing is fine, John," Sherlock said in reply.

"Yes," John murmured. "Yes, thank you for that."

He shifted, trying to get a better look at Sherlock's expression. "Just... really? A _bee_, Sherlock? You think I'm... what? A small fuzzy thing with a stinger?"

Sherlock snorted. "Not what I was going for. But given your predilection for jumpers and your skill in small arms, not to mention your height, it's not wholly inaccurate either."

John waited a moment before he sighed. "You aren't going to explain, are you?"

"_Dull_," Sherlock drawled.

"Right," John said. "Okay then."

And let it go.

...

"Mycroft," John half-greeted, half complained, dropping into a chair at the Diogenes Club. "What do you want? I was doing the shopping."

"Nothing strenuous, I assure you," Mycroft said, pouring a cup of tea. "I just wish to check in on yourself and my brother."

"And you couldn't have _phoned_ for this?" John grumbled under his breath before giving in. "He's fine. Just being... Sherlock. Would you believe he called me a _bee_ this morning?"

If he didn't know better John would swear that Mycroft appeared shocked.

As it was the man's eyebrows rose practically to his hairline. "Really?" Mycroft said, carefully taking a seat in front of John. "If he has that is most... interesting."

"He has," John said with a rueful shake of his head. "I think I'd know when I've been compared to an _insect_."

Mycroft hummed and leaned back against his chair. "There is a common misconception that bumblebees, according to the laws of aerodynamics, should not be able to achieve flight," Mycroft informed him. "Utterly false, of course, but nonetheless a gripping image. Nature defeating the very science that seeks to understand it."

John listened distractedly, wondering where Mycroft was going with this.

"When Sherlock was quite young a maid told him this information as if it were fact. Sherlock quickly learned otherwise but it began a rather... _focused_ interest in bumblebees. Indeed, in bees of all varieties and forms. Sherlock finds bees nothing less than _endlessly fascinating_."

Mycroft twirled a spoon around his cup, examining the ex-soldier thoughtfully.

"Dr. Watson – _John_, if Sherlock has indeed referred to you as a bee then you should take it as no less than the ultimate compliment he is capable of delivering."

John stared, completely taken off guard.

"You can't be serious."

...

John debated whether or not he should say anything for most of the evening before he could no longer hold it in.

He found himself putting on the kettle just to have an excuse to be in the kitchen while Sherlock worked on his microscope.

"Sherlock," he started hesitantly, "about the... bee thing. Mycroft told me what you meant by it."

"Yes," Sherlock muttered, not bothering to look up. "I'd noticed your rather ridiculous grin after coming back from shopping."

John cleared his throat. "Yes, well, thank you... for that. It's... nice."

Sherlock finally glanced up. "Do _try_ to not let it go to your head, John. Frankly, that grin makes you appear to be even more of an idiot than you are."

John grinned wider. "Love you too, Sherlock."

Sherlock responded with a rude gesture, causing John to break out into laughter.


End file.
